


Emotions

by CookiesAreSoHot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gender-neutral Reader, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7586326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookiesAreSoHot/pseuds/CookiesAreSoHot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You LEFT me. You left me to mourn you and bury you and think you were DEAD!”</p><p>there was an expected wave of emotion the moment you discover Jack Morrison, the former face of Overwatch and your boyfriend, was alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emotions

There was an expected wave of emotion the moment you discover Jack Morrison, the former face of Overwatch and your boyfriend, was alive. Hope, happiness and relief, all too brief, before all the pain of anger and grief from the past six years of believing he was dead came bubbling to the surface, consuming whatever else there was.

As a result, your first reaction upon seeing those familiar blue eyes (how you had loved those eyes) after this man (this stranger who had been standing in your living room, who held up his hands in defeat when you understandably got angry at his being there), pulled down the visor and mask that covered his face, was to clock your (former?) boyfriend in the jaw.

“How COULD you!?”

Jack Morrison, no, this _stranger_ , because Morrison has been dead for six years, winces and gingerly nurses his jaw. “I’ll give you that one for free,” he begrudgingly admitted before giving a dry chuckle. “Only because it seems fair – “

“Fair!?” You scream in reply. “You want to talk about fair!?”

He looks at you, eyes soft and pained but you do not stop your assault of words. “You LEFT me.” Your hands shake, your vision beginning to blur. “You LEFT me to mourn you and bury you and think you were DEAD!”

Your knees are weak and you find yourself on the ground, barely containing your sobs, hugging yourself because God, it hurts, everything hurts and it’s six years all over again. The day Mercy held you as Reinhardt grimly told you of the explosion at the Switzerland Headquarters and this odd hollowness buried itself into your chest and curled up to sleep, only to wake and haunt you every so often and cry out for Jack in the middle of the night.

But this isn’t six years ago.

This isn’t the day you buried an empty casket because they could never find a body (“disintegrated in the explosion” they had told you) nor is it the day Tracer pushed the card of a therapist into your hand and said she had done great work with her before so she knew she was good (“Chronal dissociation and all.” She had tried to grin; she had tried her hardest. “I know it’s not the same, but… look, she does great work with grief and loss too, love, so… just try, ok?”).

This is now, and he’s standing before you, he’s alive, he’s _alive_ and it still feels like some sort of cruel joke.

“… I’m sorry.”

You want to laugh at that remark, at how he dares to say those words because of course he should be _sorry_ , but it hurts to breathe and you’re still sobbing so you don’t laugh, nor do you flinch away as he kneels down in front of you and pulls you tightly against him.

“I’m sorry, I’m so, _so_ sorry.” He breathes into your hair, holding you to his chest and all you can do is lean against him, your body refusing to cooperate as six years of anger and sorrow and grief rushes to the surface.

He presses his lips against your forehead and you almost want to slap him again, but all your shaky hands can do is ball against his jacket, feeling him down because you’ve dreamt of something like this, when he would show back up in your life like nothing had happened and press feather kisses against your neck and apologises for making you cry because Jack always told you he’d do anything to make sure you never cried, and how do you know that this isn’t some dream your brain has conceived, confused and overwhelmed, from getting the Recall from Winston.

When you offer nothing to his apologies but tired whimpers of sadness, he smooths your hair. “I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to put you through this.” He tries to explain. “It just… happened.”

He takes your silence as response to continue. “I didn’t really have time to think…” _Just six years_. You don’t say. “Reyes was dead and then everyone was assuming I was dead too and…” He buries his face into your hair. “It seemed so easy. To just, walk away, from everything.”

“… walk away from me?” You croak out, your voice hoarse and tired, and he instinctively squeezes you harder against him.

“No. God, no.” He insists. “I meant to come for you, I did… but… there was the funeral and everyone was around you constantly and it never felt right to drag you away from everyone and everything as well and I just…” Jack slumps against you. “Maybe… I felt like you deserved a second chance.”

The silence hangs in the air after that, heavy and thick and uncomfortable and the only sounds you can hear are the crinkle of his jacket as you shift against him and the sounds of life going on outside your apartment, as if the man you had loved and the man you had mourned had not just waltzed into your life again (well, through the unlocked back door actually if you’re correct).

You have so many questions for him and even more emotions to process and shift through as that hollowness in your chest stretches out, pulling at every nerve of your being in every manner of way before you finally settle on one thing.

“… You don’t get to make that call.”

You can feel his brow furrow in confusion. “What?”

“You don’t get to make that call.” You repeated yourself, voice stern and steady. “You don’t _get_ to decide I deserved a second chance.” You’re pushing yourself away from him, almost disgusted by his touch, because how _dare_ he.

“I don’t think you understand the weight of this, Jack. I – I LOVED you. God. I loved you!” Your voice is raising again and the urge to punch him again is too but the grief and sadness cause that anger to give way and you slump, almost in defeat. “Jack… Jack, I KNEW what I was getting into when we… when we first…”

“But would you have dropped everything?” He questions, voice unwavering, eyes searching for yours when the question catches you off guard. “Would you have abandoned all our friends, your family, to chase after me?”

“Was that even the cost of still having you be in my life?” You bite back, ignoring the lingering thought that you didn’t answer his question. When he stares at you, having apparently noticed your lack of an answer as well. “You… You could’ve asked.”

“… What if I’m asking now?”

“… Jack?”

“I know. I know about the Recall.” You want to ask him how, but he’s already continuing, shifting on the ground. “The reason I came tonight… Is to figure out what your answer is. If you’ll be going back.”

_Oh._

So that’s why he’s here.

You’re offended that’s what it takes for him to come back into your life and he’s obviously noticed, he tries to reach over to cup your cheek, your name ghosting on his lips but you slap his hand away, the hurt and anger bubbling in your chest again.

“I haven’t given Winston my answer.” You reply flatly, your eyes avoiding his because if you look at him you’ll forgive him because even after six years of mourning and grieving and at least half of those years in therapy, you still loved, no, _love_ Jack Morrison.

Jack nods, but it’s hard to read his expression on your answer and that just makes your gut clench in uncertainty. He pushes himself up and offers you a hand.

 _I won’t bite_. The Jack in your memory, the Jack you loved, with blonde hair and the bright blue uniform, teases. The Jack that is here, that is alive and breathing with worn white hair and crows feet dancing around his eyes (same bright blue), merely waits for your response, unchanging.

You give a tired sigh but take his hand and let him help you find your footing. “Is that the answer you wanted?”

“You’re an adult.” He responds almost curtly. “You’re capable of making your own decisions.” You flinch when he says that and almost instinctively, he pulls you against him in another hug.

You tense in his arms and even with the anger bubbling in your chest again, you can’t pull away. You lick your lips and wish the sudden tight dryness in your throat would disappear. “Am I capable of making my own decision about this?”

_About us._

“… It’s been six years.” He responds.

_Do you still even love me?_

You don’t ask that.

“It’d be healthier if you…” He clears his throat. “Acted like I was still dead. Healthier if you stayed away from Overwatch.”

_Healthier or safer? For you or for him?_

“… Then why did you come?”

“…”

“Jack?”

He ignores you, moves to pick up the forgotten mask on the floor but you put your hand over his, preventing him from putting it back on. “I died. You buried me. You mourned me and you… you moved on.” The former soldier doesn’t look up from the mask in his hands, ignoring your former question. 

You almost laugh at that.

A small part of your brain wants to ask how he knows you’ve moved on? Because you went on a few blind dates courtesy of Mercy? (“You’re still alive.” The pseudo angel had insisted. “Act like it.”) But that would mean he’s been keeping tabs on you and that raises a whole load of other questions and feelings that you aren’t in a state of mind to deal with right now so you sharply inhale of air through your nose before exhaling loudly and finding your voice again.

“Can we try?” You ask meekly and when he looks at you, piercing blue eyes staring at yours in uncertainty. “I’m capable of making my own decisions after all.” You insist, hating how small and weak your voice sounds right now. “And… maybe I want to make a decision that includes you in my life again.”

“… as we were?” He cautiously asks, an eyebrow raised, but the look he’s giving you makes warmth and hope spread throughout your chest, even as the sorrow and rage persist.

“I… don’t know.” You reply. “J-Jack… I never stopped loving you but…”

_It’s been six years._

He stares at you for a moment and you can’t read his expression and you’re almost terrified he’ll deny you this but then his mouth is caught against yours and the kiss is so hesitant like he’s afraid you’ll break if he’s too rough and somehow that makes hollowness in your chest _ache_ but the kiss you return is just as cautious so maybe you shouldn’t complain.

When he breaks the kiss just enough that his lips are still almost grazing yours it’s painful and you wonder if it’s on purpose. “I never stopping loving you either.” He admits, raspy voice barely above a whisper. “But… we are going to have to talk about this.”

“I know.”

“Six years is a long time.”

“I know.”

“We’re both very different people now then we were back then.”

“I know.”

“I’m a wanted man now.”

“I didn’t know that but I figured,” When he looks at you questioningly you shrug almost innocently. “Heard the whispers underground and seen that mask of yours everywhere.”

“Always were a cheeky one, weren’t you?”

There’s a pulse of warmth at the fact he’s praising you but you push it aside. “Jack… I still want to try.”

He makes a non-committal grunt before he pulls his hands away moving to fasten his mask back into place and you hate that because suddenly he’s a stranger in your living room again.

“Are you… leaving?” You ask when it suddenly occurs to you.

He stares at you and it’s amazing that even with the visor on, you can still somehow see the look of sympathy he’s giving you. “I can’t stay. Not for long. It’s  - “

“Not safe.” You finish for him, making no attempt to hide the disappointment in your voice. There’s a pregnant pause before you hesitantly speak again. “I mean it. I still want to try.”

“…I’m not saying we can’t.” Jack murmurs as he makes his way to the front door, you following him like a lost puppy. “Now’s just not safe.” He pauses, looks back at you and places his hands on both your shoulders, the red visor gleaming under the low light of your hallway and you’re trying hard to picture the blue eyes of the man you fell in love with (the man you still love) instead. “We’ll… talk okay? Maybe get coffee or something.”

“Yeah… talk.” You parrot back, brain suddenly struggling to catch up with this rush of information while your heart aches in your chest with a cocktail of emotions that you can only describe as ‘lethal’.

You almost barely register him quickly pulling down his mask again to press a kiss to your forehead before he slides a burner phone into your hands, whispering that he’ll just be a call away if you ever need him (part of you knows this is more for safety than anything else) and then he is gone and you are left with that strange hollow twinge in your chest and a cheap phone that weighs uncomfortably heavy in your hands.

You numbly stumble your way into your kitchen and shakily grab a bottle of water from the fridge, ignoring the urge to reach for the vodka you keep tucked away in the back of the closet because you were always a weak drunk and alcohol would only complicate your poor brain and heart even more.

You practically tear the lid off with your teeth, the thought to put down the burner phone Jack gave you, which you are still cradling in your other hand like it’s a precious jewel. You stumble back into your living room and fall back into an old arm chair, taking a swig from the bottle as you lean back, still trying to process your emotions.

You roll the phone over in your hand absentmindedly as a memory plays over in your head.

Jack Morrison, the young Jack, with an unscarred face and head full of blonde hair and the stars in those beautiful blue eyes, laying across from you in his bed. You’re absentmindedly tracing shapes against his naked skin and he gives you a lazy smile, friskily suggesting that you better not think of tickling him because he’ll take that as a declaration of war against your commanding officer.

You find yourself wondering if this Jack, the ‘old’ Jack, still smiles like that.

The phone buzzes in your hand and you nearly drop it and the bottle of water in surprise. You check it and reads a message from a number that is listed as “Old Dog”.

> _Don’t forget to lock your back door. There’s dangerous people around._

You can’t help the tired grin that spreads across your lips, nor the bloom of hope that melds with the hollow ache in your chest.

Second chances indeed.

You wonder if the therapist that Tracer recommended you to does couples counseling.


End file.
